Exit and Entrance
by Vinividivinci
Summary: A short vignette between when Jane leaves the mental hospital and meets Teresa for the first time.


He didn't turn around, didn't look behind him. He had spent six months in that place but now he wanted to forget it, to never think of it again.

He took a deep breath – or tried to, but it came out much shakier than he'd expected. He tried again and this time his lungs seemed to cooperate. It was such a relief to smell fresh air, air not tainted with despair and illness and hopelessness.

He kept walking, not sure where he was going other than _away_ – he was moving away from the place of death – his death, so longed for, so desired.

Because now he wanted to live, now he had a purpose. He no longer felt awash in a sea of red – of red pain, of red guilt, of red death. He had substituted those feelings for the red of vengeance.

A part of him – a small part – was grateful, although any other emotion but vengeance was a tiny speck in his consciousness. But it was true, Dr. Sophie had given him a purpose in life – the one purpose which kept him going, kept him from slitting his wrists and allowing the red inside him, the guilt, the anger, the despair to drip out until it was all gone, until he was all gone.

But now he had something to do, something to live for, and that was to find _him_ , to kill _him_ , to make _him_ suffer just a fraction of what he'd made Jane suffer. He lived to kill – and then he no longer needed, or wanted to live.

He wandered aimlessly that day – lost in the sole purpose that now consumed him. It consumed him to the point where he forgot to eat, forgot to sleep, forgot to even think about where he was or how he was going to get home.

The doctor had said she'd call someone to come get him – he had lied and told her he had already called, that someone was waiting for him. It was a lie because he _had_ no one. There was no one left who cared that he was leaving the hospital, that cared that he had survived, that cared if he lived.

The ones who loved him, who cared, had died in a sea of red. Now he had no one and nothing.

He continued to wander aimlessly, only occasionally taking a drink of water. That first night he slept in a park, hidden behind bushes so the police wouldn't find him. The next day he continued to walk , slowly making his way to his house, although he didn't consciously know that's where he was heading.

The second night he slept in an alley, until he was rousted by a security guard and forced to move. Instead of finding another place to try and rest – not sleep, because that was a rare occurrence for him on any night – he kept walking until the sun peeked up over the eastern sky.

By midday he could smell the ocean – that smell that had once relaxed him, made him feel like life had turned out. Now it only reminded him of all that he had lost.

He arrived at the house late that night and simply stood in the front yard, staring at the brown building – the place that had once brought such warmth and happiness, but which now stood as a monument to his guilt and pain.

With shaking hands he opened the door, not even wincing at the screech of hinges long since unused. He walked in – to an empty room, which echoed with his footsteps.

Oh God! Her tricycle was still there! Why hadn't they taken it – moved it so that he wouldn't see it? He closed his eyes, for the first time in weeks feeling tears gather. Charlotte! His baby. The innocent child who deserved happiness and light and love – not a horrifying death at the hands of a sadist.

He could hear her giggles, her laughter as he wheeled her around on her tricycle for the first time.

"More Daddy, more! Faster, go faster!" And he'd laughed with her – overjoyed at the fact that he was so lucky to have two such beautiful girls in his life.

And she was gone and all that was left was the rusting tricycle – never to be ridden again. Never would he hear her laughter, her cries of "Daddy".

He blinked and turned away. There was only so much he could take. He had to concentrate, to focus, to destroy that which had destroyed him. After that he could close his eyes and rest, for eternity. His last thoughts would be of Charlotte and of Angela – hearing their laughter, feeling their love.

He walked slowly through the house, not yet able to face the stairs or what resided at the top. He moved into the living room – to the last place he remembered before waking up in the hospital weeks later.

Sophie told him that they'd found him in the corner, curled up in a ball, not speaking, not moving – barely living.

It had been his housekeeper who had found him – or his former housekeeper as he had let her go after the funeral. He'd found out that she had returned to bring him a meal, concerned that he wasn't looking after himself.

And she had been right. Again Sophie informed him that when he'd been found he'd been severely dehydrated and near starvation. He hadn't eaten for almost two weeks and had barely had anything to drink. If Maria hadn't found him that day he probably would have died.

He still had trouble not blaming her for that. The peace and painlessness of death still beckoned.

Except he had a job to do and he didn't deserve to die until it was done.

He walked to the kitchen and turned on the tap – there was still water so he drank until he was no longer thirsty. He then took a deep breath and turned towards the stairs. He needed the reminder of why he had to stay alive, why he had to start his quest.

The red face stared down at him in mockery – challenging him, laughing at him, telling him he couldn't do it.

"I will find you and I will kill you," he promised that red demon. He took a deep breath, suddenly energized by the task ahead. Vengeance would give him strength.

The next morning – after a very long night spent under that face – he rose and threw water on his face. He knew he had to get started, although he wasn't sure how. It took him a few minutes to remember the name of the police officer who had spoken to him at the funeral.

Detective Elliot – that was it. He had to get in touch with him to find out what he knew about Red John.

It was only then that he realized he didn't have a phone. The house phone had been disconnected and he'd lost his cell phone. He'd gotten rid of everything he could – going on a rampage one day and literally tossing his possessions into the yard. He couldn't remember what had happened to everything but he was pretty sure his phone was long gone.

He needed to replace it and to do that he needed money. It took him a few seconds to remember he had his wallet – they'd given it back to him at the hospital when he'd been released.

He pulled it from his pocket and opened it. His license and credit cards were there as was about $54 in cash. He couldn't look at the pocket, which held the photo of Angela and Charlotte. He didn't deserve to even see their faces.

Sophie had informed him that his bills had been paid by a temporary trustee appointed by the court. The man – a lawyer – had also looked after his accounts and investments. He had been given back full control when he was deemed well enough – sane enough he guessed – to handle things. He would have to head over to the bank that day and see about getting money.

His car, the one so lovingly purchased by Angela for his 30th birthday, was in the garage. It had gas so he was able to make it to the bank, where he took out a new card and some money. His next stop was to head to the police station. He figured it was better than a phone call anyway.

 _Sacramento_? He had to drive all the way to Sacramento to talk to someone about the case. Detective Elliot had been kind but had quickly informed him that the CBI (what the hell was that?) had taken over the case and he would have to talk to them.

Without another thought – and still without anything to eat – he turned his car around and began to drive towards Sacramento.

He slept in his car that night – or if he didn't really sleep, at least he lay there with his eyes closed. In the morning he headed to the CBI offices to find out what he could about Red John – and to kill him.

He didn't notice that his clothes were filthy – he hadn't changed since the hospital. Clothes, hair, _image_ were no longer important. He no longer cared about anything but his quest – everything else was simply incidental.

He arrived at the old, brown brick building, parked and, after instructions from the receptionist, made his way up the elevator. When he got out he looked around, feeling unsure and uncomfortable.

He had this strange feeling – had had it for months – that everyone could see through him, that they would look at him and know he killed his family. And they would know he was a fraud, a conman, a useless grifter.

He asked to speak to Agent Lisbon, hoping the man would be willing to share information. If not, he would have to find a way to _get_ the information. How that was going to happen – he didn't care. He would do whatever it took.

A petite, dark-haired woman walked towards him, her body language screaming her discomfort and irritation – coated with a good dose of honest pity and compassion.

"Mr. Jane? I'm agent Teresa Lisbon – you wanted to talk to me?"

The saga began ….


End file.
